


Not Ineffable

by GenericUsername01



Series: God's Plan Should Be Thrown in the Garbage [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley's Tattoo (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, okay that's a lot of crowley tags but this is just as much about aziraphale, religious shunning, soulmate rejection, this is the THIRD fic ive written with that as a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericUsername01/pseuds/GenericUsername01
Summary: The Great Plan is ineffable, but it is hardly the only Plan God has. No, she has a personal plan for each and every one of Her creations, from the mightiest seraph to the littlest sparrow. Humans have to muddle through blind, not knowing what Her plan is for them, but angels are given more explicit instructions. Specifically, she gives them the names of their soulmates, their sigils seared into their skin somewhere.Aziraphale and Crowley were both destined for somebody else.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), crowley/an angel (past)
Series: God's Plan Should Be Thrown in the Garbage [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2098461
Comments: 22
Kudos: 207





	Not Ineffable

**Author's Note:**

> Mild mention of passive suicide ideation after Crowley's Fall
> 
> Also warning for cult parallels and depiction of religious shunning
> 
> Also I forgot Good Omens already had its own explanation for Atlantis rip. Just go with it. This is a different Atlantis, this one started the myths or something

In the beginning, God created angels as sort of a trial run to see what the fuck would happen and they came out super weird. Some were six-winged burning snakes, some had four heads each from a different species and four wings covered in eyes, some had forms that appeared extremely old upon creation, some were just a bit _too_ beautiful.

And God was having a lot of fun and messing around, so She decided to start pairing them up.

Every angel had a soulmate. All of them. Some angels had multiple soulmates, and God told the host very firmly that it wasn’t actually a reward and shouldn’t be taken as a sign of favoritism, do not get jealous. All soulmates loved each other, deeply and truly, in a way no other could, but some bonds were platonic and some were romantic.

Now, every angel already knew who their soulmate was. Of course. But just to make things abundantly clear and make any stupid shit inexcusable, God decided to write every angel’s soulmate’s sigil on their form somewhere, in a sort of permanent way that transcended the idea of corporations. It was a bit like writing ‘PROPERTY OF _____’ in big permanent marker. She tried to put all the sigils in super obvious places, but really, just writing name after name gets boring after a while, so a lot of them ended up wherever.

But then the angels turned out to be kinda dull actually, so God allowed them to take a backseat while She moved on to a new project: humans. It involved a lot of worldbuilding.

* * *

Raphael and Jegudiel had found each other early.

There had been some concern, at first, over their great disparity in rank. A seraph and an archangel weren’t even in _adjacent_ Spheres. But Jegudiel was of Uriel’s division, and Raphael literally did not supervise his work in any way shape or form, or even come anywhere close to doing anything that could be considered that. He spent an embarrassingly long segment of non-time dancing around the issue and politely declining Jegudiel’s attempts at courting, and all the other capital-A Archangels called him a moron constantly, and yet it still took Raguel actually snapping and going off about how he was being _cruel_ at this point for Raphael to get over himself.

Gabriel, to this day, has not let it go and still makes jokes about his intense desire to nobly suffer as a martyr, when he could easily have just not done that.

It was kind of funny, in a way. An archangel and an Archangel. Heaven really wasn’t good at coming up with names for ranks, were they?

Getting together with Jegudiel had felt like a relief. Like coming home, without having realized before just how desperately you missed it. A deep, cleansing breath. Warmth from the cold. He was finally doing what he was supposed to.

Jegudiel was the angel of responsible and merciful love. Raphael always thought that was kind of funny. The existence of responsible love implied the opposite existence of irresponsible love, and how could anyone ever love someone irresponsibly? Presuming it was true love, anyway.

It seemed so absurd. The idea of ever truly loving someone irresponsibly, mercilessly. In his head, Raphael began to think of Jegudiel as the angel of all love in its purest form. Surely nothing could ever surpass this. Could ever even hope to equal it.

He had to be the luckiest angel in all of Heaven, he thought, to be loved the way that Jegudiel loved him. He had been blessed with the greatest soulmate of them all; the pinnacle of what God wanted in an angel.

He was so in love and so blindingly happy it almost hurt, to allow himself to dwell on it. To think on it too much. To simply soak in the feeling and let it wash over him. He told Jegudiel that once, laughing through a smile, but the other angel’s face had fallen and gone ashy at the words.

He said it was nothing, though, and Raphael trusted him to tell him the truth if it honestly mattered.

Raphael spent his time in Heaven lovedrunk, trying to be an equal soulmate worthy of Jegudiel, healing minor training mishaps and conducting symphonies of stardust into nebulae, into burning galaxies.

He was the angel of marriage as well, and that was generally considered to have been invented for the humans’ sake (having no natural soulmates—aside from Adam and Eve—they were intended to choose their loves for themselves, and would need a ceremony to indicate that bond), but, well. It seemed so nice. Lovely—godly, even. To declare your love and promise forever in front of all of creation.

So angels started marrying one another, and Raphael, a seraph, a leader over them all, the angel of marriage itself, was the one to preside over these ceremonies.

All except for one. The wedding of Seraph Raphael and Archangel Jegudiel was presided over by the speaker of the heavens, Seraph Gabriel.

* * *

Aziraphale had been created a bit late, on the tail of the era of angel-creation. This didn’t really matter much, in the time before time existed. Maybe he was centuries younger than most, maybe he was days. Either way, he had millennia and ages and _eons_ to figure things out.

And anyway, it wasn’t like he was one of the very youngest. Just, maybe, on the division of the last quartile.

So he got to Heaven a bit late, and there were already so many angels, and everybody else seemed to know what they were doing, and it was very confusing. And it took a little while, but he figured things out.

He was to be a principality, the Guardian of Eden itself. He was also the patron angel of the hearth and queer people, but he didn’t truly know what that meant yet. As a principality/guardian angel/what have you, he would be permanently stationed on the Earth once it was built, and it would be his duty to guide and protect the humans. He could choose certain groups or nations or individuals if he wanted, he already had the patronage of his soul, and he would receive formal assignments from Heaven on occasion.

He had been given a flaming sword.

And, because God was so kind, he had a soulmate.

Zadkiel. Chief of the Dominions, Seraph Michael’s second, angel of freedom, benevolence, mercy, and all who forgive.

Zadkiel, in the way of all dominions, was shockingly gorgeous with searing divinity that would send humans into raptures from a mere glance. Not in the way of all dominions, he had been armed with a dagger personally constructed by God.

The dagger was to exercise his mercy with.

Every angel had a God-given tool of some sort. Principalities tended to have crowns and scepters; most dominions had a scepter or a decorative sword as well. A number of angels in Gabriel’s division had horns and trumpets, just as a number of angels in Uriel’s division had infinite magical scrolls.

Every single angel belonging to Michael was armed.

But, well, these were all generalizations. Every angel had whatever tool they would need most. And it appeared that both Aziraphale and Zadkiel were exceptions within their choirs.

Perhaps that’s what made them such a good match.

Was a shame they were so awkward around each other.

The avoidance seemed natural and preferred. Aziraphale had the vague sense he was being snubbed, that he had been judged and found lacking somehow.

It didn’t really matter though. Aziraphale was destined to walk the Earth, permanently, on a never-ending assignment, and Zadkiel couldn’t even visit the place without causing a riot and shutting down any settlement he entered.

It was for the best, really, that they decided to ignore each other. Mutually.

* * *

As stupid as it sounded, Raphael hadn’t seen the Fall coming.

He had honestly just been dicking around. Samael was a fun guy! Azazel had some good points. He really hadn’t thought Lucifer would take it all so seriously.

When Raphael spoke about Heaven not being right anymore, he was thinking along the lines of reform. Improvement. Making it a Heaven worth serving, a Heaven that earned the title.

And, you know, next thing he knew, they were all being rounded up and marched in chains up to Heaven’s highest level, swordpoints prodding backs and wings to hurry them along.

And God, everyone was there, watching, but at least a third of Heaven was in chains.

Michael snapped the line with pliers that could snap bone just as easily and shoved Lucifer forward.

They were standing in a line, at the edge of this horrible circle of angels all around the room, the other seraphim. Raphael’s heart plummeted and he felt dread sink into his gut, into his bones.

Raguel stepped forward, eyes completely consumed with light. He held up the scale, the ultimate scale of perfect justice, given to him by God.

He looked into Lucifer with brilliant shining eyes, and he judged his soul.

Raguel snapped his fingers, and the floor dropped out from under Lucifer.

He screamed as he Fell, but the rest of the room was silent.

* * *

It was thousands, thousands, thousands of angels Falling. Demons Falling. Wings bound in heavy chain, feet shackled, hands cuffed behind their backs.

It was not a flight. It was not a controlled dive. It was a fall, plain and simple.

Hours and hours and hours and hours.

Raphael had been searching the crowd that whole time. The crowd and the line both.

And then Michael’s bolt cutters snapped the chain at his feet, and Gabriel shoved him forward so he tripped onto the judgement floor.

He wrestled up onto his elbows and glared at his beloved ‘choir.’

Like family, Remiel had always said. We’re a flock.

She wasn’t saying anything now, of course. Just like she hadn’t said anything earlier when Samael went down, screaming and swearing, his halo of fire solidifying into horns, his skin burning red with the strength of his rage. The only other seraph to Fall.

Raphael dimly wondered what he would come out looking like.

“Seraph Raphael,” Raguel said, but that wasn’t really his voice. For all the endless truth that light in his eyes saw, Raphael suspected he wasn’t actually _seeing_ anything. “You have committed the sins of blasphemy, heresy, and apostasy. The last alone is unforgiveable. Do you have anything you wish to say for yourself?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Tell my husband I love him.”

He closed his eyes as the floor dropped out.

* * *

So much more non-time passed, but still Raphael wasn’t ready. Hell was getting organized, creating a hierarchy, a system. He wasn’t involved in it. Made it clear he had no intention of running jack shit down here, that he had absolutely no ambitions and wasn’t willing to play politics at all.

He went from an Archangel of the Seven to one of the unranked masses of the demonic horde.

People were fine with that, really, an unambitious demon was one who wouldn’t stab you in the back. Samael gave him a sad smile, the first time they saw each other, but that was it.

He was calling himself Satan now. _The Adversary._ He had chosen seven princes.

Some demons were changing their names into new ones, some weren’t. Lucifer stayed Lucifer, for instance, but Beelzebel changed into Beelzebub, Lord of the Flyers now the Lord of the Flies. And there were more extreme changes too, of course, like Matthias to Murmur, and so on.

Raphael didn’t see the point. He was still the same Raphael.

* * *

It had been so long, so long, for all those up in Heaven too, and everything was ready, and now real time had started. The days had begun to exist. They marched on one right after the other.

Satan had a plan.

He explained it clearly. He would be the architect, and Raphael would do the dirty work. Satan didn’t trust anyone else down here not to screw it up.

“Now, dear _brother,”_ he said sardonically, smiling with all his sharpened, venom-dripping teeth. “Get up there and make some trouble.”

* * *

Jegudiel appeared before him, flashing down in a strike of lightning.

Raphael stilled.

“You tempted the humans,” Jegudiel said, and Raphael nodded. “Were you forced?”

“No,” he said. “No, it was Satan’s idea, but I-I did it myself,” he said. He drew in a breath, deciding to answer the next question before it was asked. “Fell all on my own too.”

“That was an accident.”

“I don’t regret it,” he said. “Heaven—Jegudiel, Heaven isn’t right anymore. It’s-it’s cold, and brutal, and terrifying. You say one wrong thing and they drop you into sulfur. There are—there are thoughts that are forbidden! Did you hear the list of the sins I committed? I just disagreed!”

“You cannot ‘disagree’ with the truth of God,” Jegudiel said. “You questioned Her righteousness, and Her authority. Your blasphemy was slander of Her love. You doubted the depth and justice of it, and that idea can only be arrived at through serious mental disease. You Fell long ago, Raphael, when you first allowed yourself to stumble into the trap of independent thinking, and did not immediately come back to the Truth.”

“God’s Truth is garbage,” he spat. “A Heaven full of paranoid angels all snitching on each other and terrified to speak is not a Heaven I want to serve.”

“I will allow for the idea that there are some imperfect individuals within God’s Kingdom,” Jegudiel said. “But the organization itself is perfect. Just come back. You’ll see. I can talk to the other seraphim. They’d make an exception for you. We all miss you so much, Raphael.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, I’m not going back there. And I never will.”

Jegudiel looked up to the sky, blinking rapidly. He pulled in his lip for a bit, and took a quick breath. “I see,” he said. “If you ever change your mind, I’d be happy to speak to you again. I… I love you, Raphael. You’re still my husband.” He smiled. “My soulmate.”

He primed his wings, and took off for the sky.

* * *

Crawly lazed around the garden, sleeping intermittently, for two days after that. Adam and Eve got expelled, a Fall of their own sort, and God ordered them banished from the Garden so that they might not reach the Tree of Life and regain their immortality.

She also put a boatload of curses on them, their descendants, all women, all demons, and all snakes. Which Crawly really thought wasn’t fair, but clearly nobody was asking him.

He eventually slithered down out of the tree, but mostly because it was getting cold. He crawled across the ground and onto the warm wall, right next to that armed guard, and he didn’t actually care how this interaction ended.

But the angel didn’t kill him on sight.

“Well that went down like a lead balloon,” he said, intent on starting something.

“Sorry?” the angel asked.

And then Crawly proceeded to spew blasphemies and heresies and apostasies. But the angel just sat there and took it, didn’t attack him, didn’t even leave. Inexplicable. He clearly didn’t agree, he wasn’t like some secret apostate that the other angels just hadn’t caught, he was disagreeing with Crawly properly.

But he was still here. And nonviolent.

It was then that Crawly noticed his mistake.

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

“Uhh—”

“You did! It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?”

“Uhhh—"

"Lost it already, have you?”

"...Gave it away."

_"You what?!"_

"I gave it away!" the angel shouted. "There are vicious animals! It's going to be cold out there. And she's expecting already. And I said, 'Here you go. Flaming sword. Don't thank me. And don't let the sun go down on you here.' I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing."

He had absolutely done the right thing, but also the disobedient thing, the illegal thing, the massively dangerous and forbidden thing. Crawly felt his whole chest light up.

“Oh, you’re an angel. I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”

The angel smiled beatifically. “Oh—Oh, thank you. Thank you. It’s been bothering me.”

Crawly was practically flying. This angel was okay, he decided. He might just stick around.

* * *

Crawly burrowed down into the sand, making himself a den of sorts, and slept on and off for thirty years. He stayed down there for twenty more.

He only came out when he felt that he could do so without crying.

Jegudiel’s sigil was stark black on the left side of his neck _(it used to be gold)_. When he had first fallen, tumbling out of heavenly chains by taking the form of his aspect, he had emerged from the sulfur a snake. Satan had grinned, said they were two of a kind. The only Fallen seraphim, the only demons whose true forms were flaming six-winged snakes.

Satan’s form had changed into something different in the Fall, and Crawly was able to control how much of his aspect manifested at any given time. He could be a snake or a human and hide his wings. He could engulf his corporation in fire, or he could keep it off of him. The eyes seemed a bit permanent, though, and it took constant low-level concentration to keep his sclera white and his tongue un-forked. Sometimes scales appear in his bonier areas, if he’s very relaxed and not paying attention.

Later on, Satan had told him of his plan for the first temptation, and Crawly had laughed, and said he would finally be one supreme snake of Hell. Satan had huffed, and said he barely looked the part.

Crawly gave himself a tattoo right on the side of his face, sticking out his snake tongue.

It wasn’t his sigil. His sigil was some swirly, loopy thing with a line down the center. It looked a bit like treble clef, or a cursive J.

The tattoo was not the symbol that meant ‘Raphael,’ but it was the sign of the serpent of Eden. It wasn’t as big as Jegudiel’s name on his neck, but it was certainly more obviously placed.

He kept his hair long, and he took care to arrange it just so. Jegudiel’s sigil stayed hidden, the name Raphael was lost to time, and Crawly had crafted his own symbol and branded himself with it.

* * *

There were angels who went down from Heaven just to have sex with humans and leave.

Sometimes there were kids. As a result.

Sometimes the angels married a human, or a few humans. It was fun, it kept them around. Human lifespans are short.

When this all came to light in Heaven’s second-biggest scandal ever, the accused angels justified that they had lost their soulmates in the Fall, what were they expected to do.

The seraphim responded by binding their wings and sending them right back down for their happy reunion.

Not all of them had the excuse of a lost soulmate, of course. But those ones Fell just the same.

Aziraphale felt a cold numbing horror, watching the process over and over. How do you plead. What do you have to say for yourself. _Guilty._

* * *

He had been hanging around this particular patch of Mesopotamia for over a year now, and he knew what the Ark was about, he knew about Aziraphale being stationed to watch over it, and he knew that Aziraphale was the same angel he had spoken with on the garden wall.

He was also on good terms with all (most) of Noah’s family, but that was irrelevant.

He pretended to be oblivious to literally everything when he went to go chat with Aziraphale, just to see what the angel would say.

He was also scheming.

Noah and his family were pretty loud about the expected Flood. God had told them to be, or so they said, repeatedly, to everyone who didn’t want to listen. Crawly had figured he’d stick around and observe, better safe than sorry, and he could always cause some mischief anyway.

Then Aziraphale showed up.

It was safe to assume that everything Noah had said was true, and Crawly should prepare for the worst-case scenario. Mass extinction event. Majority of the human population wiped out. One angel down here to ensure everything goes to plan, but he isn’t expecting Crawly to do anything, and he already came up with a just-in-case-it-really-is-true plan months ago.

If Crawly saved adults, God would tell that angel to wipe the remaining sinners out. But children are innocents. If he saves solely children, no one will be able to call them wicked, and God might let them live. Maybe.

It’s his best and only shot at preserving human life.

He leaves the angel discreetly, and he goes to talk to some parents.

* * *

The animals went into the Ark. Noah and his wife and his sons and their wives went into the Ark. God shut up the door, sealing it tightly, and _then_ it started to rain.

The humans didn’t panic for the first few hours. Then, well, they thought it was a flood. A bad flood.

It was only when it was too late that anyone realized Noah was right.

But the angel was on the Ark, and Crawly was out of sight.

He had a gaggle of children with him. He told them to pack only their most precious belongings, along with as much food and water as they could carry.

They tramped through sucking mud. Crawly held air around them in a bubble. Water pounded down above and around, but it never touched them. He and the older kids kept urging them on, trying to cover as much ground as possible.

They _really_ didn’t want to be in the desert once the waters cleared. If Crawly had heard right, it would rain for forty days, and then the Earth would stay covered for _at least_ a full year. So there was no point sticking around anyway. All the children would see is water and floating dead bodies and absolutely no food growing. Then when the water did dry up, they’d be in a decimated wasteland with giant targets painted on their backs.

They marched west, and west, and west, every day as soon as they could. Crawly kept the dome of air fresh and strong over their heads, even when it seemed to be covered with an ocean. He never wavered.

He couldn’t.

* * *

It took about three years to get the kids settled in. The stone walls of the dome had been tricky to build. Crawly had put a miracle on them, to prevent any sort of collapse, and a ward, to keep these children hidden.

He taught them as much as he could, everything he thought they would need to know. The dome had been a lot bigger when they stopped moving than it had been while they were walking. It had outlets, to let streams in, full of water to irrigate and fish to eat. It had skylights, made of sand burned into glass by Crawly’s own hand, so at least minimal light could reach down there, and allow both humans and plants to grow.

He gave them a way out, but told them to give it some time, let God calm down, wait until they all felt ready and safe.

Atlantis was perfectly safe and stable when he left it, settled in the bottom of the Mediterranean.

* * *

Aziraphale found the demon again at the crucifixion, a woman now, and inexplicably waspish.

Though, he amended, was it really inexplicable? Given the situation at hand.

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?” she asked, and Aziraphale wondered if her fangs had venom, too.

“Smirk? Me?” he asked, appalled.

“Well, your lot put him on there.”

“I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawly.”

“Oh, I’ve changed it.”

“Changed what?”

“My name. Crawly just wasn’t really doing it for me. It’s a bit too… squirming-at-your-feet-ish.”

“Well, you were a snake,” he said. “So what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?”

“Crowley.”

“But how will your soulmate—” he started. “Well. That’s none of my business, is it?”

“No, go on, ask your question.”

“How will your soulmate know if they’ve found you? If you’ve changed your name from the one that God gave you?”

“Alright. First of all, Crawly wasn’t my God-given name either,” she said. “Second of all, fuck God and fuck Her Plan, I do what I want and I don’t care what She says about destiny or the innate nature of the soul, I decide who I am and I get to choose my own damn name. Third of all, I’m not looking for my soulmate. I already found him.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, well… I spoke presumptuously. Do forgive me.”

Crowley snorted.

They moved on to, somehow, darker topics.

* * *

Aziraphale’s eyes shone over the oysters and his laugh was like glittering sunlight itself and Crowley fell a little bit deeper, and denied that he felt anything at all.

And if he spent the next seventy years in Rome, where the angel coincidentally also happened to be, well, that was for business. He was influencing the politicians.

Not that any of them seemed to need it, really, and supposedly, Aziraphale was influencing them too.

What Crowley definitely didn’t think of as the Roman period ended when Aziraphale was recalled up to Heaven for a strong rebuke on his failures and a decade of retraining exercises.

* * *

“Oh!” Aziraphale called out in sudden delight. He waved his hand excitedly. “Zadkiel! Over here! It’s me! Aziraphale!”

Zadkiel turned to look at them slowly, a strange expression on his face. But then, Aziraphale often had trouble with those.

He said something to one of the angels with him, and another snorted, covering a giggle. The first smiled, almost smirking, casting a glance at Aziraphale.

Zadkiel never looked back.

Aziraphale’s smile fell, and he hurried on. He was here for a meeting, after all. Nothing more.

* * *

Swords clanged, locked together with great pressure from either side.

“Considered my proposal yet,” Crowley asked, too quietly for the nearby to hear.

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale heaved and shoved Crowley backwards. He swung out as Crowley jumped further back, the tip of his blade scratching against his armor.

Crowley circled at a distance, which he does far more often than he needs to. Aziraphale watched a snake fight a hawk once. Crowley behaves very similarly in a swordfight.

The hawk had eaten the snake, in the end.

But then, the hawk had been able to unfurl his wings and fight from three dimensions, as is proper. Aziraphale here wasn’t just fighting with two of his limbs tied behind his back—he had half his mobility gone, pretending to be a human.

Crowley darted forward for a quick strike and retreat, the way he always does. Aziraphale blocked it, nothing was accomplished, and Crowley remained at an unreachable distance, cagey and watchful as ever.

Truly, he seemed to show no real skill or interest in swordfighting. Crowley seemed to treat these encounters as an exercise in wasting Aziraphale’s time and stalling until their respective human sides had determined a winner. Not between them, of course. But each other.

Far too frequently, the Knights of the Table Round and Crowley’s band of disgraced rogues would meet up and do battle. Aziraphale and Crowley always zeroed in on each other, and excused it as a personal feud. And then Crowley would spend the whole time running around and away from Aziraphale, refusing to stand his ground, refusing to actually fight, and getting away with it on virtue of being very fast and wily.

He truly was a snake.

Aziraphale charged forward, sword extended, and Crowley darted away in another God-damned circle.

“Can’t you just hold still,” he snapped.

“Oh sorry, let me just kneel prostrate on the ground here, so you can run me through with your sword at your leisure.”

“Fight me properly!” he said. “You behave as a coward.”

“A _live_ coward,” he said. “And I have no interest in honor.”

He huffed. “Clearly.”

“You know,” Crowley said, panting, as they continued to ‘fight.’ “I wouldn’t mind losing this round. So long as I could win the next one.”

Aziraphale gritted his teeth and swung.

Crowley ducked and reared back as Aziraphale struck again.

“You’re a knave and a scoundrel,” Aziraphale gasped out. “You cannot _annoy_ me into corruption. You will never win this.”

_Clang!_

* * *

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called joyously, then immediately frowned, lowering his hand.

But the demon was already sauntering over.

Clothing in this era was in one of those phases where the height of fashion was many gigantic and loose layers—with the exception of a fitted bodice. Women were expected to wear more and bigger and longer layers, and right now, Crowley could have passed as some sort of laundry monster.

An elegantly draped one, though, with gold accents. He had to give her that.

“Hello, angel,” said the moving pile of cloth next to him. Aziraphale had to wonder at the existence of wimples. Crowley had such nice hair; did she truly _need_ to cover it with an entire bedsheet? “What are you doing in town?”

His lips quirked. “Work.”

“What a coincidence,” she said. “So am I.”

“Should I brace for the worst?”

“Nah,” she said. “Just infiltrating the nobility. I’m going to start scandals, pointless, petty drama, and encourage gossip, both true and false.”

“Ah,” he said. He hesitated.

Oh, well she would find out eventually, wouldn’t she?

“I am also in the court,” he said. “Encouraging peace and goodwill towards all. I’m to influence the nobles towards putting a high value on Christian virtues. Honesty, chastity, all that.”

“That won’t go well with the three new affairs I’ve convinced people to have.”

“I don’t suppose you could leave?” he asked hopefully.

She shot him a sharp look. “I have my orders as much as you have yours, Aziraphale. I know you don’t like to think about this, but every time one of us succeeds, it means the other one has failed.”

“I am not ignorant of that.”

“Truly?”

He looked, and her hands had a white-knuckled grip on her cane. The only skin showing aside from her face, and even that was concealed behind smoked spectacles.

He wondered, really, what Hell was like. How such a place was run. He had always ~~thought~~ been told that it was pure anarchy, the demons’ den of hedonistic sin and pleasure, where they did whatever they wanted to whomever they wanted and reveled in their lack of obedience.

But that wasn’t true, was it? Crowley had orders. Crowley complained about work. Crowley wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t have to. There was authority and obedience in Hell, its own internal structure. The demons had rejected God and Heaven only to duplicate the effect themselves. And with creatures who had already dove headfirst into flaming sulfur rather than follow the rules, what would you have to do to them, to convince them that now they must?

How exactly would Hell’s fiercest demons maintain their authority?

“There has to be something we can work out,” Aziraphale said. “Where both sides are satisfied. Not lying and skipping work, far too risky, but… fulfilling both? Somehow?”

“You want us to come up with a plan rife with both scandals _and_ virtues?”

He bit his lip. “Is it not possible to greatly value fidelity while shaming those who spurn it? Perhaps your sins could be… covered up. Get even more gossip, that way.”

Crowley hesitated. “Heaven won’t take kindly to a job half-done,” she said. “You’d need to protect yourself. Couch it all in thousands of rules, make it only acceptable under narrow circumstances. Greatly encourage honor and chastity and patience. Keep it all hands-off, out of sight.”

“Limit it to the nobles,” he said. “The peasants have hard enough lives as is. They don’t need this unnecessary hullaballoo. Too much drama.”

“We can blame it on the depravity of the rich,” Crowley said. “The poor stay out of it and stay close to God. Make sure to take credit for that. And cast the whole business as a good thing itself, of course, just…”

“A matter of carefulness,” he said. “A show of love through patience and perseverance. Love that holds true even in darkness, when shrouded in secret. Love that does not wither no matter how long it must wait to be spoken aloud.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said softly. She cleared her throat, spoke too loudly. “And in reality, they’ll be having sex and gossiping the whole time.”

“We’ll call it courtly love,” Aziraphale said.

* * *

It wasn’t necessary for Aziraphale to do this. Wasn’t required as part of the Arrangement or anything. Crowley certainly wouldn’t be expecting it.

But he had found that it was… pleasant, to see Crowley, and to be in their company. They were charming, and had a firebrand wit, and were really the only person whose presence alone seemed to soothe Aziraphale’s soul. There was simply too much of a disconnect between him and mortals, and, somehow, him and the Heavenly Host as well.

But Crowley. Crowley understood, without any explanation necessary. Aziraphale dearly hoped that the demon felt the same way, that he was able to provide them that same unspoken comfort.

And so he stood on the docks, twisting his fingers together and watching a small ship with black sails make port.

It took a while to figure out which ratty- and dark-clothed figure was his demon, mainly because Aziraphale kept looking for a tell-tale flash of red hair and not finding it, but eventually he heard a familiar laugh and looked up just in time to see Crowley grin and clap a human on the shoulder. The demon then did something or other with sails and rigging and _swung_ down to the main deck, waltzing down the gangplank easily.

Aziraphale beamed and waved, and Crowley’s whole demeanor seemed to light up as soon as he—yes, he, Aziraphale was close enough to sense his essence now—caught sight of him. Crowley grinned widely and picked up the pace, heading over to greet him.

“Angel,” he said. “So lovely to see you. What brings you down to the docks?”

“You,” he said, and my, that hadn’t sounded nearly so telling in his head. “I’d heard word about town that your ship had been sighted three days past, drawing into port. I thought I’d come and greet you. Give you a warm welcome back into Britain.”

Crowley’s smile turned soft and soppy. “I suppose a lot has changed in the past four years?”

 _Nearly five,_ Aziraphale thought privately. _You said a four-year journey but it was nearly five._ “Oh yes, so much. I have much to catch you up on. So many new books. And art, I know you have a fascination for it, so I’ve tried to keep abreast of the most major developments.”

“You’re too good to me. You know what I want to do first, though? What I’ve thought about, _craved,_ every day for the past fifty-five months since we left port?”

Aziraphale licked his lips. He shook his head.

“I want a decent goddamn glass of wine.”

He was still, for a second. Then he snorted and started laughing.

“I’m serious!” Crowley said. “The only thing ships have is the world’s shittiest beer. It was hell, angel. It was worse than literal Hell. At least there you can get something with a real alcohol content.”

“Oh, good lord,” he said, still laughing. “You could have simply brought your own wine.”

“What, and drunk it alone? Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re right. Silly me. Well, let’s fix you right up then, shall we? I know just the place.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. “You sure you want to be seen in public with me, angel? We aren’t exactly inconspicuous, a priest and a pirate.”

“Now, I resent that. It shouldn’t be unusual to see a priest with anybody. We are instructed to spread love and kindness to all, regardless of, of… _social status.”_ He spat the phrase like it was a curse. “And anyone who knows me won’t find it unusual at all, anyway. I have made it a special point to minister to all with open hearts.”

“Yeah, but anyone who knows me will,” Crowley said regretfully. “I have said a lot of things about, you know, _Her,_ and the church. If my crew sees us talking, there’ll be questions.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said primly. “I see.”

“Oh, come on, angel. It’s not like I say that stuff around you! I’m not exposing you to apostasy; you have no risk of being corrupted into independent thinking. But you can’t expect me not to criticize some of these _policy decisions.”_

He pursed his lips. “No, no. You have a right to say what you please. And I appreciate that you’ve kept that away from me, very respectful of you. I can’t fault you for having your own opinions.”

It was what he Fell for, after all. It would be like taking issue with a tiger over his stripes. Crowley is an apostate, a demon, and he disagrees with God. It is what it is.

But Crowley won’t express those out-of-line opinions around Aziraphale—not clearly, at least. He hardly tries to hide the fact of his disapproval. And Aziraphale returns him the same courtesy, when Crowley is doing things that _he_ finds immoral, or when he learns something distasteful about Hell and how it is run.

Crowley does not try to drag Aziraphale down, and Aziraphale does not try to drag Crowley up.

“Would you like to join me at my place, then?” he asked. “Much better idea anyway. I have my own wine, and all my books are there. No prying eyes.”

“I’d be delighted.”

* * *

Humans didn’t have soulmarks, or soul _mates_ , for that matter, and so Crowley’s stood out.

There had been an unfortunate incident in the Middle Ages, when Crowley had been presenting female and her marks had been declared to be the sign of the Beast, leading to her being sentenced to execution for witchcraft and almost burned at the stake. She had taken a long nap after that, gotten away from society, and been more careful about covering up when she came back.

Their pirate phase had been a bit easier. They hadn’t been a man that whole time, but on the type of ship they ran, that hadn’t mattered, and over the years there had been several crewmembers who had crossdressed to be hired and later on stopped.

Crowley had called their soulmarks simple tattoos, and claimed to have gotten them abroad on their travels. It was easily believable, as a significant amount of non-European cultures did tattoos to at least some extent, and while most white men liked to scorn the practice and say racist things about it, Crowley was far from the only tattooed sailor.

And, with people these days having an increased awareness of other places being different (if not necessarily any sense of empathy about that), Crowley was relishing in no longer having to hide the marks.

Or. Well. No longer having to hide the snake mark. He would still greatly prefer for Jegudiel’s sigil to fuck off and disappear for life. The giant neck tattoo of his ex’s name is a constant unpleasant reminder.

“All I’m saying is,” he said, wine sloshing in his glass. The angel’s apartments were small in this era, crammed full of frivolous beige things, and in need of a good dusting. Quite the change from Crowley’s stark and spotless cabin on the ship. “You’ve got it easy. People can’t see your soulmark. You don’t have to explain it to them.”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale said, frowning deeply.

“How would you even, ‘splain that, if you had to? A tattooed priest? You—You look like a white man. And tattoos… tattoos come from other places. The Americas! Got ‘em all over the place in the Americas. ‘Nd Polyn—P’lynsee—Poe— _the islandsss._ And, uhhh…”

“Africa,” Aziraphale supplied. “India. I _think_ Australia? Not entirely sure, mind you. Don’t quote me.”

“Yeah. Yeah! Tha’s my point. Got tattoos all over the place. ‘Cept Europe. They’re an everyone-but-white-people thing. Me, isss okay, I’m—‘cause I’m a sailor. Been around. Lottsa tattooed pirates these days. But you? How would you ever explain that?”

“I wouldn’t,” Aziraphale said, taking another long drink. “Be right out.”

“Does Heaven think about that?” Crowley mused. “Why would God put tattoos on all Her angels’ faces? The first ones, anyway. And those—those tattoos are the names! Angel names! Terrible planning. Humans… ain’t s’posed to know shit.”

Aziraphale nodded drunkenly. Then he frowned. “Yes they are, we gave them a whole Bible. I was there.”

“Whuh?” he asked. “Oh yeah.”

“And it’s got—it’s got all kinds o’ stuff in it. So they _do_ know.”

“Is it the important stuff though? Like. Will it get them into Paradise?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “How should I know? ‘M just an angel. A messenger, that’s what that—that’s what ‘angel’ used to mean. God will judge them. All the human souls. After Armageddon. Then we’ll know.”

“A thousand years,” Crowley said. “Heck of a long probation.”

Aziraphale giggled. He clasped Crowley’s shoulder, leaning into him and laughing until they were practically on top of each on the settee.

“What? What’s so funny?” Crowley asked, fondness blooming warm in his chest. Aziraphale’s hair was right beneath his nose, and the angel smelled like cinnamon and vanilla and lightning, the faint electric ozone of divine power.

But mostly vanilla. Crowley liked to tease him about it, mostly along the lines of Aziraphale liking sweet things because he _was_ a sweet thing.

“Heck,” Aziraphale said, mocking and far too amused. It took Crowley a few seconds to figure out what he was referencing.

“Oh!” he said. “Oh I forgot.”

“Forgot you’re allowed to swear? Or did you forget… the existence of Hell?” Aziraphale asked, laughing all over again.

Crowley shrugged, and burrowed closer to the angel.

There was a moment of peace. Aziraphale had built a large fire in his hearth, and it was crackling and bathing the rooms in warm light. The wine was good, better than anything either of them had had in years, and the company was even better. For now, just in this moment, everything was warm and soft and comfortable.

“’S why I Fell.”

“Hmm? What?”

“So I could say swear words with a free pass.”

Aziraphale laughed and buried his face in Crowley’s neck. Both their wine glasses had been abandoned at some point, and Aziraphale was curled in a half-embrace of Crowley, and Crowley had one of his hands in the angel’s hair.

Aziraphale pulled back a bit, just to look at him better. Crowley, his demon, amber eyes uncovered. He practically glowed in the firelight. He still smelled of sea air and brisk wind, clothed in all the trappings of piracy, loose dark clothes and tall leather boots and a lot of new gold earrings. He had sheared his hair short at some point, and returned with both a handkerchief wrapped around his head and a hat on top, both of which had been abandoned in the comfort of Aziraphale’s home.

But, all the changes aside, there was one much older aspect of Crowley’s appearance that Aziraphale still wasn’t used to seeing.

He touched the soulmark on the side of his neck lightly, not noticing how the demon’s breath caught. “You always used to hide this,” he said. “I didn’t even realize you had it ‘til—‘til Dummonia. Humans are always—putting a long cloth over their heads. And you have long hair, a lot of the time. But in Dummonia…”

He traced the lines of the sigil. His smile had gone watery.

“I can see it now,” he said. “’Fore, I thought it was—the other one. On your face. And I just didn’t recognize it. But no. _This_ is your soulmark. And it says Jegudiel.” His voice cracked on the last word.

“Hey, hey now,” Crowley said gently, turning to hold his face in his hands. Thumbs stroked down Aziraphale’s cheeks, wiping away tears. “It’s alright, angel, it’s alright. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” he said. “Why am I crying? It’s your soulmark. Should be bloody happy for you. What’s it matter to me if—if—”

“If it’s any consolation,” Crowley said softly. So softly. Aziraphale did not deserve that. “I’d rather not have the mark either, myself.”

Aziraphale dragged him forward into a tight hug, and cried into his shoulder until he fell asleep.

* * *

Romeo and Juliet was, frankly, a disaster.

Not in terms of the actual play. The writing and the production were well above average, set to be a hit. But Aziraphale and Crowley had been dead silent throughout the whole performance, and Aziraphale was frankly amazed that Crowley hadn’t run off and disappeared during intermission.

“We don’t have to stay, you know,” he said.

“Nah,” Crowley said. “’S fine. Besides, I’m sure it’ll get better as it goes on.”

It did not.

“Why don’t the humans have soulmates?” Crowley asked as they left the theater. “Seems to me that would make everything a whole lot easier.”

“They _do_ have soulmates, though,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t they?”

“Hm? What do you mean? I never heard about that.”

“No, I mean.” He sighed. “God has a plan for everyone. Every single soul She created.”

“Yeah.” Crowley nodded.

“What you’re meant to do in life, what you need to accomplish, what you need to be exposed to have all the necessary opportunities, and who you’ll end up with.”

“Ah, I think I get it,” he said. “You’re saying they all _do_ have soulmates, and She just never told them who they were.”

“Precisely,” he said. “God has a plan for everyone. The difference between angels and humans, however, is that angels are told their plans clearly, whereas humans have to figure it out on their own.”

“They sure have made a mess of things,” Crowley said. “I just think it’d be easier, on everyone, if they were given signs, like we were. Humans have so many rules on who you can and can’t love these days. It’d be nice to have a clear sign to point to and say ‘here, look. God doesn’t agree with you.’ You know?”

“I see your point,” Aziraphale said. “But free will and choice is what defines humanity. If you took that away, there’d be no point.”

“If God has a plan for all of them anyway, then it’s still just an illusion.”

Aziraphale paused. “I suppose I see your point,” he said. “Perhaps I’m wrong. But that’s the thing, nobody knows for sure. The humans all have to carve their own path and just try to do their best. They don’t _know,_ one way or the other. They don’t know if they’ve found their soulmate, if soulmates are real, or if they’re just two people forging a connection all on their own. They don’t know the Truth, in the way that we do, and they just have to guess and live without the simplicity of concrete answers.”

Crowley thought on that. If Romeo and Juliet had been soulmates, would their parents have been more understanding? Would the taboo of their relationship have struck as just that much more bitter?

Would they have been matched to other people, the other suitors that both of them had had, and fought for the love they chose anyway?

Wasn’t that a self-indulgent and bitter thought?

“It is a very human concept,” he said. “Love based on choice and choice alone. No predestiny.”

“It sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said. “Poetic, almost. The humans are better off as they are, I think. Nothing to guide them but their own hearts.”

Aziraphale rubbed absently at his sternum, the very center of his chest, a nervous tic of his. Came up frequently along with soulmate-related conversations.

Crowley wondered which angel was so wonderful as to be good enough for Aziraphale. Then he wondered—again—what that fucker had done to make Aziraphale so disillusioned with the idea, to the point where for a second, he had thought it would be better to have _Crowley_ as a soulmate. And why weren’t they here. And would Crowley ever get to meet them, so he could punch them in the face.

He had thought all that before, and he would think all that again. But tonight, it crystallized.

“The system sucks,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. I was wrong. Soulmates are the worst thing God ever came up with, and all of creation would be better off without them.”

Aziraphale chuckled and knocked into his shoulder playfully. “Dear, it’s not _so_ bad,” he said. “God is perfect, and so are all of Her decisions. To be let in on a bit of Her plan is a privilege.”

“You’re just saying that so you’re disagreeing with me. Ten seconds ago, chosen love was the height of romance.”

“That’s different! I meant for humans only! Angels and demons having soulmates is a wonderful thing. It is a gift from God.”

Crowley snorted. “I literally know _one_ happy infernal couple. In all of Hell.”

“Oh, you’re lying.”

“I mean, there have to be more I don’t know, sure, but still, the point stands. And why reward demons anyhow?”

“Well, soulmates were created together back when everyone was angels, dear.”

“But God knows everything. She knew certain angels would Fall. So why bother with soulmates for them?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Equal opportunity?”

Crowley snorted.

* * *

Crowley had been settled into Paris for two years she caught sight of Aziraphale at a gala that was being thrown for the sake of having a gala.

“Angel,” she hissed. “What are you doing here?”

“I’d heard rumor that Paris was becoming quite the hotbed of hedonism, as of late,” he said imperiously. “Naturally, it is my God-given duty to come investigate and sniff out any demonic influence.”

Crowley snorted, trying and failing to repress a grin. “Coulda told me you were coming. I’d have set you up with lodgings.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine on my own, I’m sure. And besides.” He wiggled excitedly. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Crowley, to her horror, felt her face burn.

“Well,” she said, and fuck, her voice was creaking, this was _the worst._ “It certainly was that. So, um, uh, no—developments? With the Arrangement? No assignments you need me to take or anything?”

“Nope!” Aziraphale said cheerily. “Oooh, is that the dessert table?”

* * *

“If we dance together one more time, we’ll be accused of impropriety. We’re already pushing it as it is, angel, I’ve been posing as a widow.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d put much stake in propriety.”

“Well, not for myself, obviously, but for you. You won’t be able to accomplish much if you start off with a reputation for—Unless. Are you not planning on staying in Paris?”

“No, I am,” he said. “…I suppose you’re right. We shouldn’t.”

They lapsed into silence. The gala continued on, slow music floating through the air, humans talking and laughing, eating and drinking. Dancing.

Aziraphale felt ready to explode at the unfairness of it all. “Your soulmate,” he said, the words he had been holding back for hundreds of years now. “The one whose mark you wish you didn’t have. What happened?”

Crowley turned to him, startled, at first. Then she laughed. “What happened?” she asked. “What do you think happened, Aziraphale? I Fell. He didn’t. End of story.”

He frowned, because it wasn’t, for them. Crowley being Fallen didn’t prevent their cultivating of a relationship. At all. Crowley had been a demon the entire time Aziraphale had known her.

But it should have, shouldn’t it? They should be enemies— _true_ enemies. They weren’t. If Aziraphale had done the proper thing—like Jegudiel had, apparently—he would never interact with Crowley beyond what is necessary. God, it was even in that Bible, the very one he inspired humans to write. Have no dealings with apostates or dissenters. Do not bring them into your home. Do not even say a greeting to them on the road. _He that says a greeting to him is a sharer in his wicked works._

Or hers, in this case.

Why hadn’t he Fallen? It is a sin to associate with apostates. Aziraphale has always known this. He has no idea how Crowley crept into his life without him noticing, how she so thoroughly invaded the very fabric of it. How he allowed this.

It’s too late now. The sin has long since been committed. Aziraphale has not just broken bread with a demon, he has felt… affection, for her. He has lied to Heaven for her. _He has debated the wisdom of God’s plans with her._ It’s everything he was ever warned against.

Well. Not everything.

Why hasn’t he Fallen? Why hasn’t he Fallen for such stark and obvious sins? Is God not watching?

“What about you?” Crowley asked, feigning casualness. “How come I never hear anything about your soulmate? Have you not found them yet?”

“No,” he said faintly. “No, I have.”

“And… they’re up in Heaven?” Crowley’s voice turned horribly soft. Kind. “You know, you don’t have to stay down here. I know things might have changed since my time, but I’m sure the archangels would understand. You’ve stuck out this assignment for almost six thousand years. You can go be with your soulmate now. No one would blame you.”

“It’s not… that,” he said. “I don’t think Zadkiel particularly likes me.”

Crowley froze. “What.”

Aziraphale twisted his fingers together. “Oh, it’s just… We don’t have much in common. He’s a warrior, Michael’s second, even, one of the best. And I suppose I was created to be one too, but more—defensively. I protect people. _That’s_ my job. And I have to be down on Earth, to do that, to complete my purpose. It’s God’s Plan. But Zadkiel has to stay in Heaven. He’s a dominion, you see. Can never come down to Earth. And neither of us is willing to put our careers to the side.”

“But he’s your soulmate,” she said.

He smiled thinly. “I’m fairly certain he’d rather not be, dear. We’re both ignoring that… embarrassing fact. After all, he’s so important, and I’m just a stuffy old—”

“I’m going to kill him,” Crowley announced. “I am going to storm Heaven and sever his head from his neck.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help it; he laughed.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“You can’t even hold a sword properly.” He grinned.

“It doesn’t matter! And I am more powerful than you think I am!”

“Certainly.” He nodded. “I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of taking on the whole Host, so long as you don’t trip on your own sword in the stairway.”

“That was twelve hundred years ago! Let it go!”

“You dropped it to the bottom! You had to walk back down and get it! It ruined the siege!”

* * *

He loves him.

A bomb was just dropped on his head, Crowley has obliterated a church down to its foundations, and by God, Aziraphale loves him.

_How the fuck did this happen?_

There’s a bag of priceless antique books in his hand, and his soul is _saturated_ with love, his heart is hammering inside his chest, and it occurs to him to wonder whether all that love could possibly be coming from just him.

_Fuck._

How long has this been going on? How long hasn’t he noticed? At what point did he start to love Crowley and think it was natural?

It was unavoidable now. No going back. Azirphale felt it in the depths of his soul; trying to excise this love would destroy him. He couldn’t do it.

_He is not his soulmate._

This is wrong on so many levels. This is not what God intended. This flies in the face of Her Plans for them. Aziraphale should never have even spoken to a demon.

No, he never married Zadkiel, no, they were never close, they never tried to be close, but still. _Still._ Crowley is a demon. Crowley is—

“Angel?”

\--waiting for him, holding open the door to a slick black car, about ten years old. Aziraphale jolts and hurries over.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asked, sliding into the seat beside him. Aziraphale jumped.

“Yes! Quite right, thank you for the rescue,” he said quickly. “If you could just drop me off at the bookshop, it’ll all be toodle-oo.”

“Toodle-oo,” Crowley repeated.

He started up the car.

* * *

Aziraphale practically ran out the door once the car stopped. Crowley called something out to him, but he didn’t process it.

He avoided Crowley stalwartly until he began making a great noise about his planned church caper, practically banging on the bookshop windows for attention.

Aziraphale ran out of the car that night too.

* * *

“It’s a big universe. Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can go off together.”

“Go off _together?”_ he asked. He huffed out a breath. “Listen to yourself.”

“How long have we been friends? Six thousand years!”

“Friends?! We’re not friends! We are an _angel—_ and a _demon._ We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like you!”

“You do!”

“Even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I wouldn’t tell you! We’re on opposite sides.”

“We’re on our ssside.”

“There is no ‘our side,’ Crowley!” he shouted. “Not anymore. It’s over.”

Crowley halted where he stood, stopped fully in his tracks.

* * *

Aziraphale had never been to Crowley’s flat in this era (because he had been avoiding him like his life depended on it). It was dark, and cold, and horrible. He immediately determined that it was an exercise in self-punishment.

There was a statue of two winged people fucking, right at the start of the hallway. There was a puddle of melted demon spilling out a doorway about halfway through, and a vaguely-familiar eagle statue at the other end.

The puddle was cursed, and evil, but Aziraphale still thought he smelled a tang of holiness left on it.

“Stay right there,” he barked. “Don’t move. Where is the kitchen?”

“Aziraphale, it’s fine, I can—”

 _“No,”_ he said.

Crowley stopped. “What if it hurts _you?”_ he asked. “That is _literally_ the distilled remains of a creature of Hell.”

“And it won’t hurt me any more than touching you hurts me. I can tell. Now, the kitchen?”

“Off the main living room through there.” Crowley pointed. “Cleaning supplies are under the sink.”

After the mess had been dealt with to Aziraphale’s satisfaction (which took _forever)_ , they went silently into the living room. Aziraphale put everything he had touched into the trashcan, and then miracled it into a very far away landfill. Crowley got out two glasses and a nice vintage.

They sat down, on hard, uncomfortable furniture, glasses full in their hands, and didn’t say anything.

“Our last night,” Crowley said. He raised his glass wryly, then took a long sip. “Do you have any regrets? Any dramatic speeches? Seems like the type of thing you’d do. Have a soppy last speech to give.”

Aziraphale smiled. He took a sip of his wine.

“You know,” he said. “If it really is our last night. If I’ve _genuinely… wasted,_ all of this time I’ve spent on Earth, then I want you to know—I love you.”

Crowley paled. He set his glass down on the coffee table. “What?”

“I love you.” It was strange. It was actually easy to say, it turns out. Extraordinarily easy. “I love you. I have for… years. Decades. Centuries, maybe, I don’t actually know. But I love you, and I want you to know that. You should die knowing that you are dearly loved. Treasured. Crowley, from the bottom of my heart, I have cher—”

“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop it! We’re dying tomorrow, and _now_ you tell me you love me?!”

“I know. I should have said it—”

“Aziraphale, this is cruel!” he said. “You should _not_ have said it! Ever! I could have just died thinking it was never possible; why couldn’t you let me have that?”

“…Love is good,” he said. “I know it wasn’t meant to be. But it is. And I won’t deny it any longer. Screw God’s Plans, I love _you._ And I’ll declare it before all of Heaven, if they give me half a chance.”

Crowley laughed, but it turned into a sob.

Aziraphale moved closer on the couch and drew him into his arms. Crowley broke down crying, and for the first time in hundreds of years, they broke propriety and simply held each other.

Crowley nuzzled closer as if he wanted nothing more than to physically climb into Aziraphale’s corporation, and he got an idea.

* * *

Zadkiel was absent from the execution.

Crowley tried to convince himself this was a good thing.

“How could you do it, Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked. He paced in front of him leisurely. “You used to be so good. An upstanding role model. You even took a sword to the knee, during the riots of the First Fall. What happened?”

“I saved the world,” Crowley said, tilting Aziraphale’s face up. “I preserved human lives. I protected them.”

“No.” Gabriel smiled, and it turned into a laugh. “No, you consorted with a demon, plotted to murder a child, committed high treason, defied God’s Will and Plan, _and,_ apparently, made an alliance with a demon so that you could commit long-term fraud and do work for the opposition. Also! You gave away the flaming sword, literally bringing fire and weapons of death to humanity.”

“I did that to help people. I did the right thing.”

“You did evil things. What I want to know is why. Was it the demon? This all seems to come back to him. He’s in every page of your file. Why is that?”

“We’re friends,” he said proudly.

“You defied God for a friend?” he asked. “Really? How stupid do you think I am?”

Crowley had never felt so tempted to say something regrettable in his life.

“It would be one thing if you were just fucking the demon,” Gabriel continued. “But all this? He’s not even your soulmate.”

“He doesn’t need to be,” ‘Aziraphale’ said, and Crowley reminded himself that Aziraphale would not snarl and spit at an archangel.

Gabriel looked at him incredulously. “You’re so… foolish, Aziraphale,” he said. “He can never love you. None of it’s real; it’s all just a trick he’s played. And look where it’s got you. Disgraced, shamed, arrested and awaiting judgement. And, reportedly—” He gave him a pitying smile. “Suicidal.”

* * *

They’re in a meadow, and they have been all day. It had started with a long drive through the country, and then a picnic among the flowers, and then extremely indulgent and loving sex, and now they’re watching the stars.

“And that one. I nearly blew that one up. I was really intensely focused while making it, and then Uriel came up behind me and said something. Angel, I nearly jumped out of my trueform.”

“Aren’t stars s’posed to blow up?” he asked. “I thought they were giant balls of fire and eternal flame?”

“Well, not eternal,” he said. “And when I say it nearly blew up, I mean one of the stars in it nearly went nova and wiped out half its galaxy. See, that’s actually a whole galaxy, not just one star, but you can’t tell because it’s so far away. Did I say that earlier?”

“No.”

“Ah. Well, I jumped and my whole soul lit on fire—more fire than usual, anyway. Bigger fire—and then it nearly took out… Galaxy NGC 6822. Christ. Humans are terrible at naming things.”

“In fairness, dear, you made quite a few of them.” A thought occurred to him. There was precisely one rank of angel with a flaming trueform, and combined with the fact that Crowley was a snake… “All of them?”

“Nah,” he said. “Nah, it was me, and Uriel, and Remiel. We were the more artistic ones, I suppose. The others were all… inventing fucking paperwork and political posturing, I guess. Michael and Satan—he wasn’t called Satan then, obviously—were busy being corrupt and evil. If you ask me, Michael was worse than Satan, but of course, that’s what got me tossed out.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. He turned over on his side, taking Crowley’s hand in his own. “Were they—Were they like family to you, the other seraphim?”

They’ve never discussed this. In truth, he’s never considered what Crowley was like in Heaven. He’d thought about him and his perfect loving soulmate, and how Aziraphale wasn’t even good enough for _his own_ soulmate, and then he had shut up all those thoughts firmly, telling himself that it didn’t matter.

Crowley’s past was his past, so ancient it was _pre-_ history, and both of them have made themselves into completely new people from who they were then. Aziraphale has no doubt that Crowley has avoided mentioning his status as a former seraph specifically out of fear that he would treat him differently or make a big deal out of an identity that Crowley has very much left behind. It took him six thousand years to earn this level of trust, and he will not betray it now.

“Yeah.” Crowley’s voice caught. “Yeah, them and, and _him._ Jegudiel. We were married.”

Aziraphale brought Crowley’s hand up to his lips, kissing his fingers.

Crowley laughed suddenly. “You know what he was the angel of?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“Responsible and merciful love.”

“Oh—oh dear.”

“I know, right?” he said. “Shoulda seen that one coming. Loving me became irresponsible, and so he _mercifully_ decided to stop.”

“No,” he said. “No, he owed you better.”

“Ah, you’re just a sop.”

“A sop who loves you,” he said, and fully embraced Crowley, snuggling into him. “A sop who will love you _irresponsibly_ and _mercilessly_ for the rest of his days. You cannot escape it.”

Crowley kissed him. “I would never want to. If I drown in your affection, then I’ll have died happy. Love me recklessly or don’t love me at all.”

“Only if you promise the same to me.”

“Always.” They met in another kiss. “Angel, I’ve been choosing you, over and over and over, for six thousand years now. The end of the world and all the combined forces of Heaven and Hell wasn’t enough to make me stop. Nothing ever will. I’m yours, ‘til the end of time.”

“As I am yours,” he said. “Not because it is written, or expected, or easy. If God Herself told me to stop and Zadkiel came down to make amends tomorrow, I’d still choose you, no matter how dangerous that was. I will never abandon you. We’re on our own side.”

“Our own side,” Crowley repeated. “I promise. I swear it. I will never abandon you, either. I love you.”

They sealed their vows with a kiss.


End file.
